


dolce

by kiaronna



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Horror, M/M, Manipulation, Monsters, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Season/Series 04, Psychological Horror, Undead, i just take that canon and I smash my wants all over it, nothing gory or too violent tbh but I gotta label it, technically but I'm taking artistic liberties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23402698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiaronna/pseuds/kiaronna
Summary: “Martin, Martin, Martin,” Annabelle spins out, drawling, “if all you had, every day, was scraps of bread, would you not hunger for more?”Throwing his arms away, towards the screaming, the abyssal apocalypse, Martin breaks. “I’d hardly call this scraps!”“Not anymore,” she acknowledges simply. “But my patron had hoped, you see, once our hunger, our thirst was slaked, we could… expand.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 3
Kudos: 69





	dolce

**Author's Note:**

> hi, if you know me, I'm typically a fluff writer. This is not really fluffy. It's more along the TMA style. You've been warned. STATEMENT BEGINS YO

“Oh,” Martin had said, too many times, at the first faint _click_ and _whir_. While he almost never noticed, if it was already on, there was something about that first moment. “Hello there. Just another boring day. Filing. Not even a statement for you. Just checking in, hmm? Keeping me company?”

It was silly, that he spoke to the recorder that way. Too gentle by far. In a manner he couldn’t even be gentle with Jon, anymore. Maybe it was because he associated them, that humming haze and his archivist. Somehow, it felt like Jon was there. Or—or that anyone was.

“D’you want me to talk to you?” The tape spun on. “I’ll take that as a yes. Mm, let’s see…”

Oh, to be in those lonely, quiet times, rather than the now.

When they flee a ravenous Hunter pack, unsure if one of the monstrous faces is Daisy or a stranger long gone, the tape recorder is there. When Jon sits, staring off at the disintegrating wall of their newest safehouse, trying to Know just enough to help them survive the day while not Knowing too much—

The tape recorder is there.

When the ground swallows Martin’s foot, and he has to think _i’m nothing i’m not here i’m not anything i’m worthless_ until the Lonely mists it, just enough to yank it free with a sickening _crack_ , he’s sure the tapes will hear him die.

“There’s Undead, Martin, please get up,” Jon is begging. Pulling. “Please get up.”

He won’t leave him. Even Martin can see that. But Jon is The Archivist, and Martin is little more than nothing, even if he’s everything to Jon. So Jon can stay, and watch him be eaten alive, or he can save himself one nightmare among a world of them.

“Go on, Jon,” he hears himself saying. Martin, the brave. Just this once. Looking not on the bright side, but the realistic one. “Go on.”

They’re close. He can hear the gnashing teeth, the too-stiff steps. Maybe he shouldn’t turn to face them, but he can’t help himself.

Jon’s got a knife out, now, like he can do anything with it. The Undead will mostly ignore him; it’ll be all right. But Martin still wishes he would go.

Then, as the front undead takes another step, it shudders. Convulses, as much as a sack of meat still can, when there’s just bone and sinew on the inside, instead of a soul.

It opens that gaping mouth. Opens it until what’s left of its jaw cracks and hangs. Convulsing, it spews dust and congealed bile down its bloody throat, like— like it’s trying to confess. Like it’s trying to speak, but none of what it needs to do so remains.

All of the undead corpses are not so lucky.

“ _I am Mandy Blanchard—I am William Danks—Carol Knox—Darren Lawley—Ro—bin—_ “

Jon’s hand is still on his arm, and it shakes, but Martin knows somehow that it’s with satisfaction. Knows he is full, so full.

“You did this,” he whispers, as they all convulse and shake and give their statements until they can’t, anymore, until they’re in pieces. Pieces the hungry earth will swallow. “Jon.”

Jon shakes his head. “No.” There are tears on his face. “No, I didn’t. It wasn’t me. I didn’t, Martin, I wouldn’t—I _couldn’t_ —I’m not a—“

There’s no other explanation, but Martin believes him. Takes his face in his hands. “It’s all right, Jon. It’s all right. We’ll figure it out. I love you. I’m still here.”

“You’re still here,” Jon echoes, eyes on Martin’s. So many eyes.

“Is there a place near?”

“Old farmhouse,” Jon confirms. “There’s still… tea in the cellar.”

There’s more in the cellar, too, so Jon goes, and Martin waits. Martin hates it, this vulnerability, but Jon’s never complained.

So Martin lives another day. Drinks another cup of tea. He finds a blanket, checks with Jon that it’s actually a blanket, and they settle together on a couch that’s missing only one arm.

Today, Martin lives. Loves. He doesn’t know how long that will last.

* * *

For all her contrivances, when Annabelle Cane catches him, it’s an obvious trap. Maybe it gives her some sick joy, to watch Martin make the decision to enter it, to know the other strings of this web have caught him long ago. For Jon he’d do almost anything.

Her nest is in a crumbling church. Behind the cobweb curtains and the chandeliers of hanging, body-shaped cocoons, the stained-glass windows still shine through. Blue and green and gold. The sun’s not even up outside—this region is ruled by The Dark—but still they glow.

“We’ve—we’ve talked about it,” Martin says. Firm. He will not be the fly that struggles in the web. “I’ve made Jon promise, that if I’m taken, or if I die, he’ll go on. He’ll live the best he can. He’s been through enough, and if there’s one thing— _one thing_ —he gets out of this, it’s that he lives.”

“Is that all,” Annabelle says. “And here I’d hoped you both would do better. Survival instinct is meant to be a powerful thing.”

She circles the pulpit. Lights a candle. Maybe this is how she tempts The Desolation, establishes herself as beyond the threats of other Entities. If Martin so much as lit a twig, the skyline could go up; if he sits on a pew, here, it will splinter into his thighs, wriggling woodworm spilling from every crack.

Still, he’s survived. And now she will take him.

“It strikes me,” she murmurs, “that you are not being careful with yourself.”

“Worried about me,” Martin snaps, a little desperate, “are you, now? Trying to—fatten me or season me up?”

This, Annabelle Cane ignores. “The Lonely and The Eye had you. A little crueler, a little colder, and The Web would’ve taken you. You are smart. And if you figure this out on your own, slowly, it will give you time to form suspicions, hesitations. Poison the well. If I break you now, it will be cleaner. You’ll see.”

“I’m sorry I’m not afraid of you in quite the _flavor_ you’d prefer,” Martin spits, growing louder and louder in the empty echoing of the church, “I wish I could poison you. You were in on it, weren’t you? You gave Elias your _blessing_. You told Jon, all that time ago, that when he read statements he wouldn’t be able to _stop_ —!“

“It is interesting that you speak of flavoring,” she interrupts, serene. “Poison and seasoning and food. It’s an apt enough metaphor.”

“So go on, then.” Martin hangs his head, but he still looks up, stubborn, looks her in too-dark eyes. “Go on, and feast. I’ve never been particularly afraid of spiders, but I’m still afraid of you.” _I’m still afraid for Jon._

 _Please_ , he thinks. _Please run. Don’t come back for me. I love you, Jon._

“Fear, you offer. Has it occurred to you,” she begins, “that the parts of our masters with more… refined palates, I’ll say, might appreciate a delicacy once in a while?”

“A— _what_?” Martin’s chest hurts. “Because I’m touched by the Lonely? The Eye?

“Martin, Martin, Martin,” she spins out, drawling, “if all you had, every day, was scraps of bread, would you not hunger for more?”

Throwing his arms out, towards the screaming, the abyssal apocalypse, Martin breaks, “I—I’d hardly call this _scraps_!”

“Not anymore,” she acknowledges simply. “But my patron had hoped, you see, once our hunger, our thirst was slaked, we could… expand.”

“There’s _nothing_ ,” Martin grits. “ _What else could you want._ You’ve—you’ve decimated us. The survivors are so few. So weak.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” She sways to the window, as if on a breeze. “It is amazing, the animalistic capacity to feel. Even in the face of annihilation. Do you not still feel other emotions, Martin? Excitement. Anger. Love.”

He does. Laced with fear, every hour of every day, in this hellscape—he still does.

“The entities are misunderstood,” she continues. “I suppose I can’t blame you. Even in an elevated form, this brain has… limits. I am so much slower than I know I could be. Just wrinkles and flowing molecules, salts. Simpler. By assuming the Entities are here simply to terrorize, to become our nightmares, we frame them with respect to us. We miss their fundamentals.” She opens her palms. “If they can consume fear, imagine what else they could favor.”

Martin freezes.

“Emotions,” he breathes. “They eat other emotions. Not just fear.”

“Oh, sweet boy, they’ll ravage _anything_ once they’ve had a lick. Even those things you interpret to be good.”

“Eating other emotions,” Martin repeats, “so happiness or love is, what, the—the fucked up version of _eating your greens_?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Martin.” She smiles, the slow crawl of the corner of her lip up her cheek. “It’s not in good enough, rich enough, supply.”

“Love is _the strongest_ ,” Martin snaps. “It’s—it’s—people choose love over fear. They do it all the time.” Martin did it today.

“People,” she acknowledges, with a loll of her head, and Martin remembers The Flesh isn’t about _people_ at all, not really. “Sometimes. But even love is fear, is it not?”

Fear of losing them. Fear of never feeling that way again. Fear of how _beautiful_ it feels, how strong. How desperate. Even when the world is falling apart around you.

“Don’t be a foolish romantic, Martin,” she concludes on a wispy sigh. “Fear has always been the heaviest emotion. The most base. At the dawn of time, there were only two things: fear, and _hunger_.” She grins. “You cannot feed hunger with hunger. But that was then. Now, my patron envisions a future where we have more. Fear as a main course, _il secondo_. A little sadness _antipasto_ ; disgust our _formaggio e frutta_ ; happiness the _caffé_ ; so on. It will be perfect balance, Martin, don’t you see? Beautiful. For this world as well as the Entities. Once they have gotten a taste of the others, once they know what it is to be revolted or a source of joy, to be all those things other than _feared_ , they will fall into line. They’ll see.”

“And love is,” Martin’s shaking, “love’s what, the—the yummy fattening _cheese_ you grate on top?”

“Don’t discredit it,” she murmurs. “Love is, of course, the _dolce_. The gourmet bite of dessert, perfectly plated. The sweetness; the awaited favorite; the _beloved_.” She circles. Tucks a strand of too-long hair behind his ear, as easily as she manipulates all strands. “It’s inconvenient, that most Entities by nature destroy anything that gets too close. All the Entities but one.”

“Why,” Martin whispers, “are you telling me all of this? If you’re going to kill me, if you want to hurt Jon, take over the Watcher’s Crown, why don’t you just,” his chest heaves, sobs, but there’s no tears. “Just _do it_.”

_I love you, Jon._

“Kill you?” Her laughter is thready, thin. “Oh, Martin, _kill you?_ And ruin all my preparation? By now,” she leans, to whisper in his ear, the brush of a thousand tiny legs across his lobe, “ _haven’t you realized that The Eye has gotten a taste_?”

* * *

Jon finds him, crouched still in the front of that old church, head in his hands.

“Martin,” Jon is half-sobbing, half-gasping into his shoulder, “I thought I’d lost you. Why did you go without me, you _know_ The Spiral makes it too easy to lose your way—I— _Martin_ —“

They shiver, in their embrace, knee to knee in the blood-red carpet. Out of the corner of his eye, Martin sees a cocoon twitch.

“But you found me,” Martin whispers. “You’re here. We’re here.”

“I looked for you,” Jon murmurs. “I tried to Know. I shouldn’t have. But I had to, Martin, and I Saw you.” He settles deeper, tighter. Content. “You were there. And I knew she hadn’t touched you; I knew she wouldn’t. _No one would, or they would answer to me._ So I found where we can go. Somewhere safe.” His arms around Martin. His eyes on everything that Martin is. “I know the way.”

Jon’s still never said _I love you_. Martin knows he feels it. Martin knows this, because he feels it back, adores every bloody and broken part of him.

A girl Jon fed on had sobbed to Martin, once. Shattered to pieces right in front of him, staggered out into the rain, marked. It had been so sudden, jarring, so far from real. Jon hadn’t chosen it, hadn’t understood what he’d done; Jon was addicted and starving; Jon was going to get better. Be better. He was. And he _did_. Jon was a monster, but he was Martin’s monster, and he was working to be the best he could be. To be worthy of being loved, in all that decimation.

“Let’s go, then.” Martin hugs him back, tender and raw. “Together. I really love you, Jon.”

* * *

_Whirr-click._

_“Oh, you’re here again. Hello there. It’s just another sorting day, I’m afraid, Peter’s out.” The sounds of typing. “When you appear like that, does Jon hear through you? I, erm, I suppose he would. Well, it’s not like he shouldn’t already know. You like secrets, don’t you? Or stories, I guess, mm. It’d be cute if you weren’t so nosy about it. I’ll tell you my biggest one, if you pass the message along to Jon, because I can’t right now. Here goes.” A shy little chuckle. “I love you. I’ve always loved you_.”

_Whirr-whirr-click._

**Author's Note:**

> my draft version of this is titled "the eye has a crush on martin (just like everyone else)"  
> is jon close enough to like. be the eye?? no. i don't care. quiet with ur logic and reasoning  
> here's my [ tunglr ](https://kiaronna.tumblr.com/)  
> sorry martin dear, you know i had to do it to 'em  
> is this actually scary? no. but I like what I like and I feel bad not labeling this horror when there's technically scary stuff in there


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